


anchor.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean's Ring, M/M, Proposals, Season gr8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas keeps washing his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	anchor.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Anker (Übersetzung)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/971367) by [lumidaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumidaub/pseuds/lumidaub)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Anchor 船锚](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518884) by [YTyuzhihan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YTyuzhihan/pseuds/YTyuzhihan)



Cas keeps washing his hands.

Dean hears him, at night; sees Cas silhouetted in the soft glow of the television as he rises from his chair and moves quietly through the motel room.  Hears the turn of the faucet, hears the water run for a minute, then another, then the minutes blur together until Dean falls back asleep.

Cas stays in the bathroom, washing his hands until dawn.

After the hunt, when Dean and Sam slide into another vinyl booth, grabbing at the plastic menus, Cas hovers at the edge of the table, staring at the bloodstains on the cuffs of his sleeves.

He says, thoughtfully, distantly, “I’m dirty,” and he walks stiffly to the bathroom.  He doesn’t come back until Dean’s finished his burger and Sam’s picking at the remnants of his salad, and when he returns, his hands are rough, red from hot water and raw from scrubbing.

Dean worries endlessly.

It’s only a little thing, the hand-washing, and Dean knows it’s only a little thing, but every day there’s another new little thing and they’re starting to add up, symptoms of a bigger problem.

It’s the way they lose him in crowds, the way Cas suddenly stops and stands still, gaze unfocused and unblinking, head tilted.  It’s the way he can’t pick up the conversation when his eyes refocus; how after these moments Cas rubs his fingers absently.

It’s the way Cas is vanishing slowly, right in front of his eyes, and Dean feels like he’s standing on the verge of some great loss, as though Cas is drifting away without a word, with only the most fragile of tethers holding him in place.

Dean wants to weigh him down, keep him from floating away.  

He drops anchors in Cas’s pockets, when Cas isn’t looking; slips his hand inside the trenchcoat to leave behind something, anything he thinks might hold Cas here, might remind Cas of  _him_ : a beer cap, an empty shotgun shell, a motel receipt.  

They stop for the night, and when they pile out of the impala he takes Cas’s hand, and Cas looks at him curiously; presses the keys into Cas’s palm and wraps his fingers around them tightly.  

“Hang on to these for me?” Dean asks, and Cas stares at the keys in his hand, at Dean’s fingers tangled up in his own, his expression unreadable.  “Don’t lose ‘em,” he adds, and Cas nods slowly.  

Cas scratches his hands, and the wounds don’t heal; he draws blood, scraping his nails against the backs of his hands, until the sores resemble puncture wounds.

He scratches absently, mindlessly, feverishly, and when Dean grabs his hand and jerks it close to his face for inspection, Cas simply blinks, confused.  

And when Dean demands, “What the hell are you  _doing_?” Cas just looks at him, troubled, and says, “It  _itches_.”

“ _What_  itches?” Dean asks, exasperated, and Cas stares at his hands in horrified fascination and says, “The  _blood_ , Dean, it’s dried on, it won’t come  _off_.”

So Dean doesn’t say a word, just settles down on the bed next to him and turns on the television while Sam dozes in the other bed; simply takes Cas’s hand and presses it firmly between his own, rubbing circles with his thumb.  Doesn’t stop even when he feels Cas’s startled glance on their palms, pressed together; he just sets his jaw and grips Cas’s fingers, holding them still.

Because as long as he holds his hand, Cas can’t tear himself apart or drift away, so he’ll keep Cas tethered to him, as close as possible; he’ll wrap Cas in chains, he’ll cuff their wrists together and throw away the key if that’s what it takes to keep Cas here.

And so when the angels place their hands on his shoulders, whispering  _Come home with us_ , when Cas bows his head and closes his eyes, turning away, Dean falls to his knees and takes a silver ring off his own finger.  

The ring is warm, slightly scratched, a bit tarnished because he never remembers that it needs polishing; it’s thinner than it used to be but still weighty with age, and love, and maybe it’s just heavy enough for this to work, because it’s the strongest sort of anchor Dean can think of and that’s what makes him reach for Cas’s hand, makes him slip the band up Cas’s finger with a fierce sort of possessiveness that simply won’t allow Dean to let him go.

And maybe it’s the ring, or maybe it’s the way Dean holds his hand and refuses to let go, or maybe it’s whatever emotion he sees reflected in Dean’s eyes that holds Cas back, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make Cas turn around, it’s enough to make him reach for Dean’s hands and grip them both tight.

Whatever it is, it’s enough.


End file.
